


Here (comes the night)

by roxymissrose



Series: come the night [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a long, long, long time after Angel, Sam begins to relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here (comes the night)

**Author's Note:**

> time stamp for Come The Night

There are moments where Sam—preAngel Sam, Brother Prince Sam, _Broken_ Sam, will suckerpunch Dean's Sam. Make him freeze, lock up wherever he is. Because it's so real, all saturated color and surround sound, full of smell and touch…Dean's hot, slithery guts in Sam's hands and his blood in Sam's mouth. For a moment, but it's always a moment too long.

=+=

They're in Sam's quarters in the Hotel, the rebuilt, the new and shiny Hotel. The staff here don’t remember what their great-great-grandparents knew. They only know that Sam is someone to be feared and that the world continuing depends on Sam but most have never seen him face to face. They see his consigliore constantly, the smiling, laughing face of the monarchy. The velvet that the iron fist is gloved in. Sam heard that once and liked it very much. Dean was like velvet, soft and warm and pliant. Unexpectedly strong.

=+=

Must be breakfast time. Dean's wolfing something down, looks like cereal and toast and eggs and bacon…and some mysterious grayish-brownish block that might be scrapple. Sam remembers scrapple from the road, from a million years ago.

Dean eats impossible amounts, shovels it in his face. Eats every time like it's his last chance ever at food, and it never changes. Sam watches Dean clear his plate and he knows the look on his face is a horrified kind of fascination.

"What?" Dean asks, his question slightly muffled by the cereal he's eating now. Sam's disgusted, but in a fond way. He hates that there's a part of himself relieved to be feeling that way…fond.

"Nothing. You know you don't really need to eat—"

Dean's spoon hits the bowl with a crack and the soft slosh of milk and soggy flakes of cereal. He blinks rapidly; eyes focused diamond hard on his plate for a moment before looking up at Sam with a smirk firmly in place. "Yee-ah, I seem to remember you telling me something like that once."

"I. Dean…."

"Hey," Dean snaps, and Sam clamps his lips together, and his eyes are fixed on the pulse beating in Dean's neck. "Sammy…" 

Sam slowly raises his eyes to Dean's face. Now the smile Dean gives Sam is wide and bright and real. "I like eating, what can I say?" His tone is light and teasing, he shrugs and Sam can't take it, can't take the forgiveness implied. He stands, almost kicks his chair back and it screeches against the tiles. Dean flinches, just a bit and it hurts. 

"I'm gonna—I gotta—" Sam smiles but he feels like crying.

"Sure," Dean says, "go, go. I gotta get the troops ready anyway. Time to put a little show on at the Duke's borders again."

And that Dean smiles when he says that, even looks like he anticipates leading a horde of demons into a skirmish makes Sam feel like…there aren’t any words to describe how he feels. There really aren't. How can he use any human term to describe the inhuman amount of self-hatred and disgust and remorse and sorrow he feels for what he did?

He's horrified that he doesn’t feel anywhere near that amount of remorse and self-loathing when he thinks of how he ruined the world, though. It's nothing like he feels when he thinks of how he ruined Dean. At least he feels like he should be horrified. 

He's working at it.

=+=

Dean throws his napkin down and stands. "Okay, game time," he says. As he passes Sam on his way to the door, Dean slaps him lightly on the cheek. "Buck up, you look like a freakishly sad puppy."

That's Dean, really his Dean: irreverent, sarcastic, kind of a jerk. Sam inhales and smiles—more real, this one. "Yeah, okay." 

"Really Sam, you can't afford to go rolling around in self-pity—"

"It's not self-pity; I'm sorry, sorry for what I did—"

 _"—self-pity,_ because if you let yourself get dragged down, you drag _everything_ with. It's not just about you, got me? I'll be back in a few hours. We'll do…something." He winks. "Maybe sooner than that. Gimme the keys."

Dean doesn't really need the keys, it's not as if the car is _The Car,_ or that it needs keys or gas or anything at all. Keys are…symbolic more than anything else and Dean likes the routine. They never talk about it, Dean's need for routine. Sam understands, of course—but it's just one more thing that sends him into the bathroom late at night to stand under a shower and cry quietly as he can to himself. Routine keeps Dean from worrying if Sam was going to snap. Treat him like a chew toy. It's only when Dean is on his rounds about Sam's business that he's free from the straitjacket of routine, free from fear and worry, because there not a damn thing _outside_ of their suite that Dean fears. 

Sam watches Dean prepare to leave and thanks Cas for Angel. Angel's memories are all that keeps Sam on his feet sometime because Brother's memories are enough to make Sam want to run screaming over a cliff. Except for those times that they make him hard…less and less so lately. Thank god, thank god….

The soothing weight of Dean's hand, warm and solid on his back, brings Sam back to now. "Knock it off, Sam, I'm not kidding. Don’t make me drag you along. I gotta keep eyes on you like that?"

"No, damn it, take the fuck off. And bring back something for dinner. "

"What, am I the wife in this thing? Bitch."

"The pretty one's always the wife. Jerk."

Dean leaves Sam in their kitchen, his exit punctuated by a slap to Sam' head. Very much enjoying the brief sting and what it means to both himself and Dean, Sam smiles and cups his hands around his mug until the coffee in it steams. He sips it slowly, contemplating. Clears his mind of everything and waits, patiently, and before long a thought comes drifting up out of the dark—a long ago night, a friendly pair of dogs along a broken up road…feeling light and happy, the sound of Dean 's laughter the best thing he'd ever heard.  
#


End file.
